


Anomalies

by pattsymountt



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-10-11 08:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10460178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pattsymountt/pseuds/pattsymountt
Summary: You are one of life’sanomaliesand this ishow I fell.-Yrsa Daley-WardThey're strangers, until one day, they're not. A modern uni AU that does what it says on the tin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fell out of my head when the prospect hit me of nine long CTM-less months. Never written an AU before, so I hope you enjoy :)

Delia is late. 

Twenty-seven minutes late, to be exact. She hadn’t realised just how bad it was until she’d seen the clock tower in the square, because her mobile had died on the second bus transfer out here, so when the little bell above the door of the café rings merrily to signal her arrival, she’s sure the classmate she’s meant to be meeting will have given her up as a bad job.

But apparently not. There’s only one person in the whole café, and she’s looking at her watch. Her hair is brilliant, firecracker red, tied into two plaits next to her ears, and she’s got a green coat halfway on that makes her hair look even brighter. _Patience Mount_ , Delia thinks. It’s a hell of a name. When she had told her housemate Trixie that the partner she’d been assigned for her stupid presentation skills project was called Patience Mount, Trixie had burst out laughing.

Delia rushes over to her, panting. Patience, or this girl who Delia assumes must be Patience, pauses with one arm in her coat sleeve and looks up.

“…Delia?”

Delia nods and collapses into the chair next to her, clutching a stitch in her side. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The bus didn’t turn up, I waited for ages, and then I had to walk two miles just to get one on the other route, and it doesn’t stop anywhere near here, so it was…” She trails off, suddenly aware that she’s rambling. Patience is watching her, the corner of her mouth twitching.

She shrugs off the green coat and holds out her hand. “I’m Patsy,” she says, in a very clipped voice that takes Delia by surprise. It’s at odds with the slouchy checked shirt she’s wearing, at any rate.

Delia takes her hand and frowns. “I thought the list said—“

“Patience, yeah.” Patience—Patsy—rolls her eyes and grins lopsidedly. “Please never call me that.”

Delia grins back. She’s got a very infectious smile, this Patsy. “Gotcha.”

“Are you Welsh?” Patsy asks with interest. “I hear it’s lovely there, I’ve never been.”

“I am, yeah. Tenby? In Pembrokeshire?” and when Patsy looks blank, Delia gestures vaguely with her hand and adds, “It’s on the south coast. It’s a seaside town.”

“Gosh.” 

“Yeah.” Delia doesn’t really know what else to add to that, so she yanks her rucksack up from the floor and rummages for a notebook and a pen. “Right… Should we—“

“Do you live quite far from here then?” Patsy interrupts, making no move to unpack her bag.

“Sorry? Oh, um—I mean I don’t live in Wales now—“

Patsy laughs. “No, I meant—you said you got the bus here.”

“Oh! Oh.” Delia pushes her sweaty fringe out of her eyes, embarrassed. “Um, no, I was just at work, which is quite far away from here. And from my house. I live just up the road, actually. I coach kids’ football and the football club is really far out, it’s sort of inconvenient when you don’t have a car…” She’s rambling again. She clears her throat awkwardly and reaches up to tighten her ponytail.

“That must be fun, have you played long?”

“Yeah, since I was little. I mean not well or anything, that’s why I coach kids, ‘cause they’re worse.” She laughs self-consciously. “Are you from around here?” she asks politely, but Patsy has disappeared under the table to grab her things, and doesn’t hear her. When she emerges she’s holding a pristine notebook and five pens in different colours, which she arranges neatly on the table in straight lines. Delia stares at her own single pen with its mangled, chewed end, and tries to cover it with her sleeve.

"Right,” says Patsy, suddenly business-like. “Shall we get on with it then?”

+++

They’re there for five hours.

Delia doesn’t know where the time goes. One minute they’re planning their presentation topic – the history of the NHS, which is Patsy’s idea but Delia loves it – and the next they’ve been sitting there chatting away next to their long abandoned notes for so long that the sour-looking waitress comes over and ushers them outside, grumbling about how they ought to have realised the café was closing.

“Now _that_ is the reason it’s always so empty in there,” Delia mutters under her breath as the door slams shut behind them. She tries to click her phone on to check the clock, before remembering it’s out of battery. “Do you have the time?” she asks Patsy, squinting into the late afternoon sun.

“It’s gone five.” Patsy looks sheepish and shoves her hands in her pockets. “Sorry to have kept you, have you got somewhere to be?”

“I do this—this volunteer thing with St John Ambulance,” Delia says awkwardly. “But it’s fine, it’s not until half six.”

Patsy looks impressed. Delia feels quite pleased.

They stand there next to each other for a moment, Patsy chewing her lip and watching cars drive by, and Delia sneaking glances at her out of the corner of her eye. She has the passing, ridiculous thought that it feels vaguely like the end of a first date. Not that she’s been on many.

“We should probably meet up again,” Delia says suddenly, surprising herself. “Maybe in a couple weeks? After we’ve both done a bit of research?”

Everyone Delia knows who has taken this module has met up with their partners exactly twice: once to decide on their topic, and once to do the actual presentation. For a second she wonders if Patsy is aware of this, but before she has a chance to panic that she’s given herself away, Patsy is nodding her head enthusiastically.

“Absolutely,” she says. “That’s a good idea.”

Delia feels herself flush. She tries to cover it by wrapping her scarf around her neck. “Two weeks from today? Same time, same place? I promise I won’t be late.”

Patsy looks like she’s trying to stop herself from smiling. “Best not be.”

Delia grins and points down the road. “I’m headed that way, are you…?”

“The other way.” Patsy gestures with her head down the opposite road, her hands still in her pockets.

Delia nods. “See you in two weeks then.”

“Two weeks,” Patsy echoes.

Delia smiles into her scarf as she walks away. She doesn’t know what everyone’s on about, grumbling about presentation skills. It seems like quite a lot of fun to her.


	2. Chapter 2

Patsy unlocks the door to her flat feeling remarkably more cheerful than she had been when she’d left it this morning. 

She had been dreading presentation skills since the day she had transferred here. It’s a university-wide module – part of some absurd professional development scheme – and the announcement that this was the term you were taking it often elicited groans of sympathy from any student within earshot. There weren’t weekly lectures, but instead a big term project, where each student was assigned a partner at random to do a lengthy presentation on a topic of their choice in front of the rest of the class. Most people seemed to have gotten it out of the way in their first year, which only made things worse; as a third year transfer who was already quite a bit older than everyone else, Patsy had been sure she would be stuck partnered with some eighteen year old.

Plus, the whole thing is just bloody pointless. Patsy has never had a problem with public speaking. She’s never blinked an eye at the thought of talking in front of hundreds of people. Talking in private, though – that’s a different matter entirely. It isn’t as though Patsy hasn’t made friends here; she has, a group of people from a Sociology of Medicine module she had taken earlier in the year. Jules, Patrick, and Shelagh are all very kind, and she likes them a lot, but she can’t help feeling that she doesn’t quite connect with them.

It’s not their fault. She’s always found it difficult to open up to people. She often wonders if others must think her very cold.

Patsy hangs her keys carefully on their hook and collapses on the couch, her mind drifting back to her project partner. Delia. She almost can’t believe her luck. Not only is Delia not a first year, she actually seems bright. And interesting. And rather gorgeous. Patsy can’t quite put her finger on what it is, but Delia had tumbled into that café with her dark messy ponytail and wide eyes and Patsy had found herself instantly taken with her. 

Without really thinking about what she’s doing, Patsy pulls her phone out of her bag, opens Facebook, and types in “Delia Busby.”

Only one result comes up in the search, and the profile picture is unmistakably the right Delia. Absentmindedly, Patsy clicks on “More about Delia” and scrolls down to the “interested in” section.

There isn’t one. Or she can’t see it with Delia’s privacy settings. For a second, her finger hovers dangerously over “Add Friend.” 

Patsy clicks off the phone and throws it across the couch. She doesn’t know what she’s thinking. Obviously the chances of Delia being…well. Patsy rolls her eyes at herself. Delia is lovely. She's probably got some long-term boyfriend she’s completely in love with.

Their next meeting is two weeks away. Patsy walks over to the fridge to find some dinner, and puts Delia and the ridiculous presentation skills project out of her mind.

 

+++

 

Delia isn’t there yet when Patsy arrives at the café on the Saturday they’d agreed upon, which isn’t surprising, because Patsy is twenty minutes early. She wanders down the pavement to an old bench and starts messing around on her phone, trying to stave off the growing feeling of dread that Delia might not show up at all.

The thing is, as Patsy had realised approximately five minutes into her research, there really is no reason for them to have to meet up again at all. They’d divided up the work already, so that Patsy would present the first half and Delia the second, and the truth of the matter is that this whole project requires very little collaboration.

When she had remarked upon this to Patrick and Shelagh at their house one afternoon, they had looked surprised.

“What, you’re meeting _again_ for presentation skills?” Patrick had said scornfully. “Why are you having more meetings for that rubbish?”

“That’s very odd,” Shelagh had agreed. “When I took that module I don’t think we met in person at all until the actual presentation day.” 

“My partner didn’t even show up _for_ the presentation,” Patrick had added ruefully.

Patsy had stopped listening at that point, because a little bubble of nervous excitement had burst inside her chest. Surely Delia knew that no one actually met in person for these things, definitely not more than once. Delia was obviously a very busy person. If she had wanted to see Patsy again…

…but it was naïve to hope. Patsy hardly knew Delia. Maybe Delia was just an unusually dedicated and thorough student. An unusually dedicated and thorough student who had spent four and a half hours at their first meeting talking about her favourite cocktails and her secret love for record players and Connie Francis.

At one minute past twelve exactly, Delia comes careening around the corner from the opposite direction with a rucksack on her back and a gym bag slung over her shoulder. “Am I late?” she pants, face flushed.

Patsy’s stomach lurches. She hopes desperately that the relief she feels at Delia’s appearance isn’t plastered across her face.

“Sixty whole seconds late, Busby,” she says with mock disapproval, surprising herself with her audacity.

Delia looks delighted.

They head back towards the café, Delia telling Patsy about a little boy at football practice who had refused to kick the ball in case it had feelings. Patsy is listening to the story so intently that she doesn’t notice the sign on the café door until she tries to pull the handle and it’s locked.

Delia stops mid-sentence. “Shut down?!” she cries in indignation. “Why?!”

Now that Patsy is looking at the café properly, she does notice that it’s very dark and empty inside. She supposes it had been so dark and empty the last time they had come here that it hadn’t even registered when she’d arrived.

“Mice,” she says, wrinkling her nose and pointing at the health inspector’s sign.

Delia groans. “It’s things like this that make my mam insist I’m moving back to Pembrokeshire the moment I graduate.” She looks helplessly at Patsy. “Where should we go?”

Patsy surveys the street. “There’s a Starbucks just down there…”

“Oh, no,” Delia says quickly. “One of my housemates is secretly dating my other housemate’s ex-boyfriend and they see each other there on Saturdays. I’m not supposed to know.”

Patsy raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “I know,” Delia says, rolling her eyes. “I always feel like it's reality TV in there. I would suggest we go there but Trixie was having some sort of meltdown this morning and I don’t know if it’s safe to go in yet.”

“We could go to my place.”

 The second the words are out of her mouth, Patsy wishes she could take them back. She doesn’t know what had made her say it. She doesn’t invite anyone to her flat, not even her friends. None of them have ever been there. She’s not sure they even know where she lives.

“Or the coffee place on campus,” Patsy amends quickly, hoping Delia hadn’t heard her properly, but Delia’s face has already lit up at the suggestion.

“Yeah, can we go to yours? It’s that way yeah?”

“Um…” Patsy wavers, panic working its way up her throat. “I guess if—if there’s nowhere…”

Delia stops in her tracks, looking horrified. “Sorry, not if—we don’t have to.”

Patsy takes a deep breath, her desperation for Delia to like her battling violently with her desire to keep Delia far, far away from her flat.

Finally, steeling herself, she makes up her mind. “No. Of course. Let’s go to mine.”

It’s only a five minute walk away, but Patsy wishes it were longer. Each step feels heavier than the last, until far too quickly they’re in front of her building.

The minute Patsy unlocks the front door of her flat and pushes it open to let Delia inside, she braces herself.

Delia gasps. “Whoa,” she says, dropping her gym bag with a soft thump at her feet. “You live _here_?!”

She gapes at Patsy, open-mouthed. Patsy looks helplessly around at the shiny hardwood floors, the marble countertops in the open plan kitchen, the floor to ceiling windows, the obviously expensive furniture. She grimaces. “Um…yes?”

Delia stares at her. “But you’re a _student!”_

Patsy shrugs uncomfortably. Fortunately Delia is too overwhelmed to pursue that particular line of questioning, and Patsy follows silently in her tracks as Delia walks into the main room.

“Look at the windows! Look at the _view_!” Delia is exclaiming as Patsy wanders behind her, hands in her pockets. In spite of herself, she starts to smile.

Delia stops abruptly, and points into the kitchen. “Pats, you have a _breakfast nook_ ,” she yelps.

Patsy is so distracted by the sound of her nickname in Delia’s Welsh lilt that she momentarily forgets to be embarrassed. “Do you not like breakfast, Busby?” she says lightly, her heart suddenly singing, and drops onto the sofa with her bag as Delia disappears down the corridor.

“Do you have a _maid_?!” Delia calls from somewhere near the bathroom.

Patsy covers her face with her hands, then pushes her hair back and sits up straight again. “No, I just—I’m quite tidy,” she says weakly.

“We are _never_ going to my house,” Delia says emphatically, returning to pick up her bag and collapse into one of the armchairs. 

Patsy ducks into her own bag to hide the flush of pleasure creeping into her cheeks. She can’t be sure, but she thinks she and Delia might have just become friends.


	3. Chapter 3

Delia doesn’t see Patsy again for three and a half weeks.

She wonders if she should text her, before realising that she doesn’t have her phone number. They’d planned their first meeting over email, and their second meeting in person, and Delia hadn’t thought to ask for her number. She decides it’s probably for the best. People don’t check up on their presentation skills partners who they’ve only met twice and aren’t even really friends with. Really, she just wants to know if Patsy has watched an episode of _Friends_ yet, because when they’d been talking at her flat Patsy had admitted she’d never seen it, which Delia thinks is insane.

Still, while she’s sitting at home with Trixie, Barbara, and Winnie in the evenings, half-listening to them discuss boys, she finds her thoughts wandering unwittingly back to Patsy. She feels she still knows very little about her, not even where she’s from, or how old she is, or how she lives in such a nice place. Maybe, Delia thinks dully as the girls break into a fit of giggles over the idea of Chris Dockerill’s dick, she’s only so interested because she just needs some more friends.

Delia decides to push Patsy out of her mind.

It’s not that difficult, when it comes down to it. Delia is so busy between her coursework and coaching and volunteering that she doesn’t have much time to devote to thinking about some girl she’s partnered with in a module she doesn’t even care about. Then Trixie decides to throw a huge house party to get Chris into bed, and Delia _really_ doesn’t have time, considering the number of hours a day Trixie wants to talk seduction tactics.

And then, suddenly, on the day of Trixie’s party, she’s there.

Delia is in the supermarket with Barbara and Winnie, traversing the liquor aisle in search of the cheapest vodka they can find, when a flash of red and green catches Delia’s eye. She looks around and there Patsy is, standing in front of the wine selection in her green coat with a basket full of groceries.

Delia’s heart jumps. “Patsy!” she calls before she realises what she’s doing.

Patsy turns around in surprise. When she sees Delia, she smiles broadly. “Delia! Hi!”

Delia grins back and heads down the aisle towards Patsy in a stupid little half-jog that she regrets immediately. “What are you doing here?” she asks without thinking.

Patsy laughs awkwardly. “Oh, just—“ She offers up her basket. “You know, shopping.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Me too.” Delia shoves her hands in the pockets of her hoodie, suddenly self-conscious about the fact that she’s got no makeup on when Patsy is in front of her buying classy wine and looking like a model.

A tense moment passes in which neither of them speak and Delia curses herself for coming over in the first place. She’s just preparing to say goodbye and forget this interaction ever happened, when Patsy glances over her shoulder and nods towards Barbara and Winnie. “Are those your friends?”

Delia looks behind her and sees Barbara and Winnie where she’d left them, so engrossed in comparing the alcohol content of various flavoured vodkas that they apparently haven’t noticed she’s left. “Oh, yeah! Yeah. They’re my housemates. We’re, um—well our other housemate Trixie is having a party so she can, like, shag this bloke from her Victorian lit class, and it’s this whole, y’know, _ordeal_ , so she’s at home getting ready and she sent us out to get more alcohol even though, I mean, you should see our kitchen counter, we’ve got so much already—“

Patsy is watching her with her eyebrows raised, amusement playing on her lips. Delia immediately feels herself go red and stops talking.

“Gosh,” Patsy says, at last. “Does this bloke from the Victorian lit class know she’s throwing a party just so she can shag him?”

“Oh, no, it’s all very underhanded,” Delia replies. Patsy laughs. A little curl of pleasure unfolds in Delia’s stomach. 

Patsy turns and surveys the wine in front of them. She sighs deeply. “Do you know anything about wine?”

Delia squints at the bottles of reds lining the shelves. “I know that yooou….buy the second cheapest and hope for the best?”

Patsy laughs again. “Right. No wine for me tonight then.” She glances over Delia’s shoulder. “Your friends look a bit confused. I ought to let you get back to them.”

Delia follows her gaze. Barbara and Winnie, neither of whom really drink, are holding four bottles of vodka each and looking panicked.

“I hope you have a good time,” Patsy says. “And that Trixie has fantastic sex,” she adds, eyes twinkling. 

Delia can’t help the giggle that escapes her. “I’ll pass it on,” she says. “It was nice to see you.”

“You too. Bye, Delia.”

Delia watches Patsy walk away towards the cash registers at the far end of the aisle. Then, before she can give it any thought and change her mind, she calls out again, “Hey, Patsy?” 

Patsy turns. Delia jogs up to her, nerves shooting through her. “You could come if you wanted. To the party. If you’re not busy.”

“Oh!” Delia is relieved to see that Patsy looks pleased, not horrified. “That’s so nice of you.” Patsy glances back at Barbara and Winnie. “Are you sure your housemates wouldn’t mind?”

Delia waves her hand dismissively. “No, loads of people will be there.”

Patsy nods and doesn’t say anything. Delia chews the inside of her lip for a moment, and when it’s obvious Patsy isn’t going to speak, fishes out her mobile from her pocket and holds it in front of her. “Do you want to just—if you put your number in here I can text you the address.”

Delia watches as Patsy takes her phone from her and quickly taps in her number with purple varnished fingernails. When she hands it back, their fingers brush. Something flies through Delia like a little spark of electricity. 

She tries to keep her face impassive. “So I’ll see you later, maybe.”

One corner of Patsy’s mouth raises in a lopsided smile. She regards Delia like she’s about to say something, but then gives her a little wave instead with the hand not holding her basket. “Bye then.”

“Bye,” Delia says as Patsy walks away.

It’s only once Delia has returned to her friends, her heart racing, that she realises she’d been holding her breath. 

She has no idea what’s gotten into her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winnie is Sister Winifred, in case that wasn't clear. Hope you're enjoying!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome and your lovely comments :D they encourage me to write more instead of taking endless post-work naps!

Patsy isn’t going.

She contemplates her bedroom with a growing sense of despair. The bed, normally so carefully made, is completely hidden under a pile of discarded dresses so large that Patsy is half tempted to jump into them like a pile of leaves. Her wardrobe doors are flung open, drawers askew, belts and tights hanging out like someone had rifled through them with a gun to their head.

She had never actually agreed to go, she reasons with herself. The words _Yes, Delia, I will see you at your party_ had not been spoken aloud, even if they had been implied. No one is _making_ her go, least of all Delia, whom Patsy is certain had only invited her to be polite. It’s what you do, if you mention a party to someone. You invite them. In reality, Patsy will probably just be a inconvenience if she actually turns up.

So she’s not going. 

Except that she really, really wants to.

She leans back against the wall, trying to decide what to do. Her phone is next to her on her desk, and she picks it up out of habit, only to see Delia’s text from an hour ago still displayed on the screen.

 _hey this is deels! address is 184 eldon rd. people are getting here around 9. hope to see you soon x_  

Patsy reads it again, twice.

_hey this is deels!_

Deels. She tries it out on her tongue and decides she quite likes it.

If Delia had only invited her out of obligation, surely she could’ve just accidentally-on-purpose forgotten to text her the address? And even if she had felt too guilty to do that, she didn’t need to sound so hopeful that Patsy might show up.

_hope to see you soon x_

Right. She’s going.

Patsy turns back to the clothes on her bed with a renewed sense of purpose. It’s been three weeks since she’s seen Delia properly – three weeks spent agonising over whether to request her on Facebook, or even email her, only to be held back by the fact that Delia has seen her flat and _knows_ when no one else does.

But now she’s got Delia’s number, and she’s going to her party, and she finds she doesn’t much care. Her heart does a little leap of excitement. Even if Delia does only want to be friends (which of course is all she wants, Patsy reminds herself hastily), it’s better than nothing. She’s never met anyone whose company she’s craved so badly.

The question is what to wear. She holds up a low-cut green dress that she had bought last year at a thrift shop and compares it to a checked red one, then tosses them both back on the bed and crosses her arms. 

It’s times like these that she hates living alone. She considers texting outfit options to Shelagh for a second opinion, but decides that it would arouse too much suspicion.

That being said, she does have Delia’s number.

In a rush of bravery, she picks up her phone again.

_hello deels :) thanks very much for the info! what’s the dress code for this thing? x_

She presses send and immediately throws her phone onto the bed feeling rather sick.

It lights up with a text almost at once. Patsy dives for it.

_black tie, we keep things classy here_

And then:

_just kidding. whatever you like, we’re not really dressed up except trixie who is wearing 6 inch red stilettos_

Patsy grins stupidly at the screen for a minute, then types out a response.

_marvellous :) i’ll see you around 9 in six inch red stilettos then_

_don’t you dare! xx,_ comes Delia’s reply less than a second later.

Heart so full it feels close to bursting, Patsy spares one last glance at the final _xx_ in Delia’s text, then tosses her phone aside.

If she’s doing this, she’s doing it in style.

+++

 

A pretty blonde girl answers the door when Patsy arrives at Delia’s at a quarter past nine, after having power-walked around the entire neighbourhood three times just so she wouldn’t be half an hour early.

The blonde, who Patsy has to assume is Trixie based on the heels, blinks at her. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Patsy replies uneasily. “Um…I’m Patsy.” And when Trixie continues to look confused, she adds in a slightly strained voice, “Delia invited me?”

Trixie’s face lights up at once. “Oh of course, you’re Delia’s friend! How silly of me, sorry, she did mention she’d run into you,” and she ushers Patsy inside while Patsy works on arranging her face in a neutral expression that belies the sudden giddiness she feels.

“Here sweetie, let me take your coat,” Trixie says as Patsy removes it, and expertly hangs it up with one hand while balancing a glass of wine in the other.

Patsy holds up the bottle of gin she’d grabbed in a panic from her kitchen cupboard on her way out the door. “Where should I…”

“Oh, you’re an _angel_. Let’s put it in the kitchen, there are a few people in there already, they’ve only just started arriving-- _Delia_!” she calls suddenly up the stairs, making Patsy jump. “ _Patsy’s here! Stop being rude to your guest!_ Sorry,” she adds to Patsy. “She should be down in a minute—“ And then the doorbell rings again, and Trixie is gone. 

Patsy stands still for a moment and glances upstairs, unsure if she should wait for Delia to come down or go to the kitchen and start drinking. She’s just made up her mind to go to the kitchen when she hears the sound of footsteps trampling down the stairs. 

“Pats, you made it!” Delia exclaims, bounding over and beaming at her.

Patsy stares. The Delia she’d met previously had always been clad in oversized jumpers and a messy ponytail. This Delia is something else entirely, in a turquoise shift dress and big earrings, her long, thick hair falling loosely around her shoulders.

Patsy clears her throat and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I made it!”

“You have such brilliant clothes,” Delia says admiringly, nodding at Patsy’s ensemble. She’d decided on a pair of retro tartan trousers and an oversized blouse with her favourite heeled brogues. “I wish I could pull off something like that.” 

Patsy feels herself flush and looks down at the gin, wishing that her throat didn’t feel so dry. “Trixie said I should put this in the kitchen?”

Delia pulls a face. “Did you talk to her long? She’s a bit…manic when she’s in hostess mode.”

“No, she’s lovely!” says Patsy earnestly, and Delia laughs.

Delia hadn’t been joking about the amount of liquor. The gin is dwarfed by what is easily forty different bottles and pitchers lining the countertop. Delia pours them both something suspiciously green from the nearest pitcher and hands a glass to Patsy.

“…Cheers,” Patsy says dubiously, swirling its contents around before taking a cautious sip. She chokes as something that tastes like toothpaste and sugar slides down her throat. “Delia, this is _disgusting_ ,” she splutters.

Delia’s eyes sparkle at her over the rim of her glass. “Cheers. C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.”

They wander out of the kitchen and weave through the rooms downstairs, Delia pointing out the various unique features of each between sips of her “ _grasshopper_ , Pats, not ‘ _dreadful green thing_.’”

“That hideous rug is covering this stain where Trixie spilled like three glasses of red wine in one night, and that scary painting of the little girl over there was a housewarming gift from Barbara’s cousin, but we think it’s haunted—oh! Speaking of.”

The brunette girl from the supermarket has appeared from around the corner, holding a lemonade with a straw. “Are you telling her about Celeste?” she asks conversationally. “Yes, she’s haunted.” She holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Barbara.”

“Patsy,” says Patsy. She doesn’t know if it’s the dreadful green thing or how nice everyone is, but she’s starting to feel a lot more relaxed.

“You’re doing presentation skills with Delia aren’t you?” Barbara asks, and Patsy nods. “That must be awful, I told Delia not to wait so long to take it—“

“It’s not that bad,” Delia says offhandedly into her drink. 

Patsy tries very hard not to smile.

Barbara leans in towards them. “Have you seen Chris yet?” she asks in a low voice. “I don’t think he’s here, Trixie’s getting quite nervous.”

Delia finishes off her drink and puts her glass down on the dining room table. “He’ll turn up,” she says dismissively, and as though on cue, Patsy hears a chorus of people shout “ _Chris!_ ” over in the entryway.

Barbara looks relieved. “Oh thank goodness, now she won’t mind as much if Tom is here,” and hurries out of the room.

Delia glances at Patsy. “Tom is the—“

“—ex-boyfriend who Barbara’s dating in secret, right,” Patsy finishes for her, grinning.

“Bright as a button, you are,” Delia grins back. “Another drink?”

 

+++

 

They spend the entire night glued to each other’s side.

Almost literally, in fact, because after her third drink Delia starts introducing Patsy to people by throwing her arm around her waist and announcing loudly, “This is my friend Pats.” Every time she does it, a jolt of adrenaline surges through Patsy’s veins that makes her want to do something very brave and very stupid.

She switches to Barbara’s lemonades just in case.

Sometime around three in the morning, after a half-arsed game of Never Have I Ever that neither of them had really participated in (Patsy had been holding out for “Never have I ever kissed someone of the same sex” just to see what Delia’s response would be, but she had been let down), Delia turns to her and mumbles, “I am…rather drunk.”

Patsy opens her mouth in astonishment. “You’re joking, Busby,” she says, trying not to laugh as Delia sways perilously. “After eight measly drinks?!”

Delia giggles weakly and drops her head onto Patsy’s shoulder. Patsy puts her arm around her for support, even though the motion makes her stomach lurch.

“I think I need to go to bed,” Delia says, her voice muffled by Patsy’s shirt.

Patsy glances around the room. There are only a few stragglers left now; Trixie and Barbara have long since disappeared with their respective dates, and she hasn’t seen Winnie in several hours.

“Okay,” she says cautiously after a minute. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Clumsily, they make their way up the stairs, Delia clinging to the railing and Patsy a few steps behind her. Once they reach the landing, she follows Delia through the second door on the left.

Delia’s bedroom is small, but cosy. It’s neat – not in the bleached clean, hospital-corners way that Patsy keeps her flat, but tidy and comfortable. There are books stacked up under the windowsill and photos tacked all over one wall, featuring a younger Delia with her football team, or out with friends, or smiling with an older couple that Patsy assumes must be her parents. It fills Patsy with a profound sort of ache.

Patsy wraps her arms around herself as Delia drops onto the bed and pulls off her shoes, then curls up against the headboard in her dress and tights.

“Better?” Patsy asks.

Delia nods, watching her with heavy lids.

Patsy wanders over to the bed and perches carefully on the very edge of the mattress.

“Thanks for inviting me,” she says, glancing at Delia. “I had such a good time. And your housemates are—“

“—nutters,” Delia interjects. Patsy laughs.

“Are those your parents?” she asks, nodding at a photo on the wall.

Delia spares it a glance, then closes her eyes. “Yeah,” she says drowsily. “In front of their shop. They’ve got a shop.”

“What sort of shop?”

“The boring sort. Screws. Hammers.”

Patsy laughs again. Delia half opens her eyes and smiles sleepily at her. It makes Patsy feel very warm.

A long moment passes, during which Patsy is certain Delia must have fallen asleep. But just when she’s about to stand up, Delia says with her eyes still closed: "Pats?”

“Hmm?” 

"Why don’t you ever talk about yourself?”

Patsy swallows, feeling her heartbeat stutter in her chest. Delia is resting back against the headboard, her eyes shut, and Patsy drinks her in; her pale skin, the faint dimples in her cheeks, her dark lashes. There's so much she wants to say to her, to Delia, this girl she's fallen so hard for. But an old, familiar fear twists in her stomach, and she looks away.

"I do talk about myself," she lies, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Patsy doesn’t know if Delia can read the tone of her voice, or if she’s just too drunk to pursue it, but she drops the subject. 

Another moment passes. Patsy stares hard at the pile of books across the room.

“You can stay," Delia murmurs into the silence. "If you want to.”

Every muscle in Patsy's body goes tense. "I’ve got to go home,” she whispers.

Delia’s expression is quite unreadable. She scoots further down on top of the blankets and nestles her head in the crook of her elbow.

Neither of them speaks. Patsy watches the minutes tick slowly by on the clock on the nightstand.

“Deels?” she says finally, her voice very small. 

But Delia is asleep. Patsy watches the steady rise and fall of her chest for a minute, then picks up the plastic bin by the desk and puts it on the floor near Delia’s head.

“Just in case,” she says quietly, even though Delia can’t hear her, and switches off the light.

She isn't entirely sure what she was going to ask her, anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A toast to my girlfriend, who has abandoned me this week for a research paper, leaving me with no choice but to work on this. Thanks again everyone for your feedback, you are the wind beneath my wings!

The utter mortification hits Delia the next morning before she even opens her eyes.

She had asked Patsy to stay over. She had _asked her to stay over_. 

Delia flings her arms over her face and lets out a long, involuntary groan. She’s completely blown it. Patsy knows. She’s got to know. She’s realised that Delia’s got a big giant lesbian crush on her and had freaked out last night and left. 

Floating up through the floorboards, Delia hears a low, male voice, followed by Trixie’s distinctive giggle and the front door closing. At least the party hadn’t been a total disaster for everyone, she thinks sullenly.

She might be overreacting.

Breathing deeply, Delia tries to get a grip on herself. She hadn’t tried to kiss Patsy, she reasons. And, in theory, couldn’t she have asked her to stay over completely innocently? Now that she thinks about it, trying to dredge up the end of the night from her fuzzy memory, she’s not sure how she had even phrased the invitation. Maybe Patsy hadn’t given it a second thought. If the roles had been reversed, would Delia have?

Yes, she decides, because she’s really fucking gay. But Patsy isn’t, so that’s neither here nor there.

She drags herself out of bed, nearly tripping over her empty waste bin. It’s only half past eight - early enough to have some coffee and bacon for her hangover before she gets the bus to work. And then she can get to the library and do some revision for Tuesday’s anatomy exam before her volunteer shift in the evening and Barbara’s game night after that.

She tugs her dress up over her head and discards it on the back of her desk chair. It’s really not the end of the world, she tells herself as she digs through her dresser for a t-shirt. Obviously she’s infatuated with her straight friend, which is stupid and embarrassing, but she’s had stupid and embarrassing crushes before and they’ve faded out quickly enough. Invariably this one will go the same way, even if she has been thinking about Patsy non-stop for a month.

There’s a clean shirt at the very back of her bottom drawer. Delia puts it on with her pyjama bottoms and makes a mental note to do some laundry. 

All she needs is a plan. Pulling on a pair of mismatched socks, Delia starts yanking her rumpled duvet cover up into some semblance of neatness. Of course, she can’t avoid Patsy entirely, nor does she want to. Aside from the fact that she’d quite like to snog her, Delia does genuinely want to be friends. But, just until she’s over this crush… and outside of prep for bloody presentation skills… Delia makes up her mind on the spot. She won’t see Patsy again.

+++

“We should see Patsy again,” Trixie says the instant Delia enters the kitchen ten minutes later. 

Delia stares at her, deadpan. Trixie is sitting at the table in her dressing gown, looking annoyingly chipper for so early in the morning, which Delia supposes is what happens when you have sex with Chris Dockerill.

Delia walks over to the cupboard to find coffee. “How’s Chris,” she asks flatly, trying not to upturn any empty liquor bottles as she rummages for the Nescafe. 

“Good in bed,” Trixie replies airily. “He had to leave a half hour ago to take his gran to the shops. He does it every Saturday.”

“Really _,_ Trixie?” asks Barbara, appearing in the doorway looking misty-eyed. “Wow, what a gentleman.”

“I know,” Trixie says. “I thought it was a line, but he rang her in front of me and everything.”

Delia tunes out as Barbara and Trixie rhapsodise over Chris Dockerill and his grandmother. Surely it won’t be that difficult to avoid Patsy outside of their coursework. It had been a fluke, the party; she had been so surprised to see her, and the invitation had just fallen out of her mouth. It’s not as though they’re old friends. Besides, she thinks glumly, what are the chances that Patsy will even want to see her again, now that she must know Delia fancies her?

“Anyway,” Trixie says, dragging Delia back to her surroundings. “I was just saying to Delia, we _have_ to have Patsy round again, don’t we?!”

Barbara bobs her head enthusiastically. “Oh, we definitely do, she was so much fun.” 

“Did you see her cheekbones? I sort of wanted to marry her,” Trixie sighs.

Winnie wanders through the door, yawning. “Who are you marrying?”

“Delia’s friend Patsy,” says Trixie. “We’re obsessed with her.”

Winnie smiles widely and stretches, her arms raised above her head. “Oh yeah, she was interesting wasn’t she? She’s so _posh_!”

“I felt sort of bad making her sit on all our crap furniture,” Barbara says ruefully.

“Next to Celeste,” Winnie grins.

“We ought to invite her to game night!” Barbara says. “Shouldn’t we Delia?’

All three of them look at Delia expectantly.

Delia looks back at them, nonplussed. Of all the things that might throw a wrench in her plans, she hadn’t anticipated that her housemates would be one of them. She’s actually surprised Patsy had time to make such an impression, the way Delia had spent all night monopolising her attention.

“Oh, yeah, maybe,” she says finally, reaching into the fridge for the milk. Then, feeling like she needs an excuse, adds, “I don’t know if she, y’know, likes games.” 

“Of course she likes _games_ ,” Barbara scoffs. “Who doesn’t like games.”

“Everyone loves games!” chimes in Winnie cheerily, picking up some empty beer bottles and dropping them into the recycling.

Delia can sense Trixie’s eyes on her. She concentrates very hard on the act of stirring milk into her coffee. 

“Don’t you want to hang out with Patsy?” Trixie asks. 

Against her best efforts, Delia feels a blush start to rise beneath her cheeks. She ducks her head to hide it. “No, yeah, I do,” she says carefully. “I just don’t know her that well.”

“Really?” asks Winnie in astonishment. “You seemed like best mates last night, you were inseparable!”

Delia shifts uncomfortably. “Well she didn’t really know anyone else at the party, so.”

Trixie frowns, twirling a strand of hair thoughtfully around one finger. “She didn’t know anyone, did she? I was surprised, what’s her course?”

“Health and social policy,” Delia recites. She’s amazed she remembers; Patsy had mentioned it so briefly the first time they had met. “But she’s only been here for one term, she’s a transfer.”

“Oh! From where?”

“I don’t know,” Delia admits. “She’s never said.”

“Well where is she from?”

“I’m not—Kent, maybe? I’m not sure.”

“Somewhere nice I bet, with that accent,” Barbara says wistfully.

Trixie clicks her tongue in obvious disapproval. “Haven’t you asked her _anything_ about herself, Delia?”

“Yes!” Delia says defensively. For a moment Patsy’s huge flat appears in her mind’s eye, but something stops her from bringing it up. “She just doesn’t really—I don’t think she likes talking about herself.”

“Well that’s decided then,” says Trixie with an unsettling air of finality. “We’ll invite her to game night. Delia’s got her number, don’t you, Delia?”

Delia’s not sure if she’s imagining things, but she thinks Trixie looks at her with an unusually shrewd expression as she says it.

“Yeah, I—yeah,” she says, giving up.

Evidently satisfied, Trixie turns back to Barbara and Winnie. “Where did you get to last night, Win?” she asks slyly. “We didn’t see you past midnight…” And the three of them are off, talking about some PGCE student Winnie had met.      

Delia disentangles a frying pan from the pile on the drying rack and tosses it on the cooker with slightly more force than she means to. She’s irritated with Trixie, even though she knows her housemate has done nothing wrong; she supposes it’s considerate of her to want to invite Patsy over when it’s clear she doesn’t know many people. But to spend another night in Patsy’s company, forcing her to play board games under the scrutiny of her housemates - Delia adores her friends, but she knows they can be a bit much.

She tips half a packet of bacon into the frying pan and pokes at it half-heartedly with a spatula. Maybe Trixie will be too busy today planning her next move with Chris to nag her about inviting Patsy. She can hope.

In the seating area behind her, Winnie scrapes her chair back from the kitchen table. “Right,” she says, forcing her wild ginger curls into a knot on the top of her head. “I’m off. Driving lesson time. That car won’t stall itself. Oh, Delia—“ She reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulls out Delia’s phone. “You left this in the loo, here you go.”

“Oh, thanks!” Delia reaches out take her phone from Winnie, straining to keep the spatula elevated over the frying pan. “That’s lucky, I hadn’t even noticed it missing.” 

Winnie flashes her usual toothy grin, then strolls out of the room reciting something under her breath that sounds like _mirror, signal, manoeuvre._

Smiling to herself, Delia clicks on her phone and scrolls absently through her notifications.

_Facebook: Patsy Mount added you as a friend_

Her heart leaps so violently that it feels like it’s sprung out of her chest. Forgetting about the bacon entirely, Delia taps through to the Facebook app.

Sure enough, there it is, the little red notification bubble next to the ‘friends’ icon glaring up at her from the screen.

_Friend request: Patsy Mount_

And below it:

_1 mutual friend: Beatrix Franklin_

“You’re already friends with her?!” Delia yelps before she can stop herself. Realising that Trixie has no idea what she’s looking at, she drops the spatula on the counter with a clatter and shoves the phone in front of Trixie’s face.

Trixie blinks at the screen for a second, then leans back in her chair with infuriating indifference. “Why shouldn’t I be?” she asks. “She was at my party, wasn’t she?” She glances up Delia, eyebrows raised. “Why aren’t _you_ friends with her?”

Delia doesn’t answer. Dumping the now charred bacon on a plate and picking up her coffee, she mumbles something about having to get ready for work, and leaves Trixie and Barbara sitting at the table with confusion written plainly across their faces.

+++

Normally, Delia loves coaching. She loves the kids, and being outside, and getting to play football without the pressure of having to actually be on a team. She even likes her boss, who, despite her stern appearance, can actually be quite a lot of fun when she’s in a good mood. 

Today, though, she’s finding it increasingly frustrating to deal with the temper tantrums of eight-year-olds when she’s got such pressing matters to consider, like girls she fancies adding her on Facebook. Not to mention the pounding headache.

She runs it over in her head for the tenth time as the kids practice dribbling. If Patsy had sent her a friend request this morning, or even last night, then maybe she wasn’t horrified by the prospect of Delia liking her. Which means that she either hadn’t realised Delia likes her, or… _or_ …

But Delia isn’t going to let herself hope. After accepting Patsy’s request on the bus to work, she had spent the entire ride stalking her profile for any sign of an old boyfriend or girlfriend, without any luck – not that she really had expected much from someone so private. On the plus side, she had learned that Patsy is into far too many Brooklyn-based folk rock bands, and, bizarrely, was born in Singapore.

Realising the time with a start, she blows her whistle to signal the end of practice. Twenty pairs of tiny cleats stampede towards her as she shouts heartily about good teamwork and redirects them towards waiting parents. 

Maybe she should invite Patsy to game night. It’s a bit of an embarrassing activity to invite her to, but it’s not like they’re playing Dungeons and Dragons or anything, and they do always have a good time. Besides, the signs do now point to Patsy not hating her guts, which is at least promising.

Delia crosses the field and starts kicking stray footballs towards the equipment shed, aware of her plan from the morning crumbling around her ears and feeling quite cheerful about it. Of course Patsy will likely already have Saturday night plans, but you never know, and if she doesn’t—

“Miss Busby. Miss _BUSBY_! Are you listening?!”

Delia jumps sheepishly, snapping her attention to the severe-looking woman glaring at her with her lips pursed over by the changing rooms. 

“Sorry, Phyllis—“

“I was telling you to pick up the cones, and I’ll get the balls!” Phyllis barks. She marches over, clipboard in hand. “Honestly, girl, where your head is today, I don’t know. Esther nearly knocked little Bethany unconscious and you hardly blinked an eye.”

Delia tries to look appropriately guilty, even though she’s secretly pleased that Esther had got her own back. Bethany could be a terrible bully. 

Phyllis regards her suspiciously. “Out late, were you?” 

“No—“

“I’ve told you, if you can’t handle these Saturday morning shifts, I’ll find someone else who can. Parents are paying money for this league and they expect more than a coach who can’t stop her charges from giving each other severe injuries!”

“I can handle them,” Delia says quickly. “I’m just a bit distracted today, Phyllis, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Phyllis is still stony-faced, but something in her expression softens. “You’re a good lass,” she says, not unkindly. “Lord knows how busy you young people are these days. Just try not to overexert yourself, won’t you. I’d hate to see you burn out, Miss Busby, not with your potential.”

Delia nods, feeling rather touched, and starts obediently stacking cones while Phyllis collects the footballs in a carry bag.

They clear up together for the next few minutes, chatting companionably about their new under-7s and how better organised the group is under Phyllis’s jurisdiction. Delia has just locked up the equipment shed and is handing the keys back to Phyllis when she notices her boss squinting across the field.

“Who’s that?” Phyllis asks, pointing to the trail leading to the car park, and to Delia’s utter astonishment, she can make out a red-haired, green-coated figure making its way towards the pitch.

“If that’s another parent trying to sign up for the Easter holiday camp,” Phyllis begins irritably, “tell them signups are over, the deadline was weeks ago, and I do not tolerate—“

“I think it’s my friend,” Delia interrupts, bewildered.

Patsy seems to have realised that Delia has seen her by now, and stops at the edge of the pitch to raise her hand in a little wave. Delia stares back, racking her brain. Had she asked Patsy to come to her work last night? But that makes no sense; why would she have done?

“Is she picking you up?” Phyllis asks approvingly. “That’s very kind of her, coming all the way out here.”

Delia’s stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with her hangover. She nods mutely.

Phyllis gives the football pitch a quick once-over and ticks something on her clipboard. “Well, I think we’re all done here,” she says briskly. “Go on, don’t keep her waiting. I’ll see you next Saturday, Miss Busby,” and she turns and walks in the opposite direction towards the staff offices.

Heart pounding, Delia wishes Phyllis a good afternoon, then slings her gym bag over her shoulder and hurries towards Patsy.

“Hello Deels,” Patsy says, smirking slightly as Delia comes to a stop in front of her. “Smashing uniform.”

Delia looks down at her red and purple training jacket and matching shorts. “Thank you,” she says awkwardly. “Sorry, how did—why are you…here?”

“Trixie told me last night how much you hate waiting around for the bus after work.” In a gesture that’s become endearingly familiar, Patsy shoves her hands in her pockets and nods towards the lone car glinting beneath the sun in the car park behind them. She smiles shyly. “I thought you could use a ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere apologies to sporty people for all the misused football lingo...there's a reason Delia doesn't actually play on a team!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait! Thanks for sticking with it!

“You’re giving me a ride?”

“Yes!”

Delia frowns between Patsy and her car behind them looking baffled, as though she’s never heard of such a thing.

Patsy laughs, if only because she’d promised herself she would not be awkward about this. “For god’s sake, Deels, it’s just a car.”

Delia stares at her for another second, then shakes her head and starts walking toward the car park. “I’m so confused,” she mutters.

Patsy falls into step beside her, feeling secretly relieved. “You were telling Trixie and me about your job last night, and when you went to the bathroom she mentioned how long you spend on the bus every Saturday and suggested I come get you.”

Delia stops a few steps away from the car and gapes at her. “Oh god, you didn’t have to—“

“No, no, it’s fine,” Patsy says hastily, unlocking the boot so Delia can throw her bag in. “I mean she didn’t _suggest_ it, really, it was more my idea.” It was, in fact, entirely Patsy’s idea, but Delia doesn’t need to know this. “And I wanted to see where you work,” she adds, grinning at the dubious expression on Delia’s face.

“You wanted to see an old football club in the middle of nowhere,” Delia says dryly, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Yes I did.”

Delia squints at Patsy, looking unconvinced. Patsy narrows her eyes back at her, trying not to smile, until Delia drops her gaze. “Well thank you,” she says, smiling into her lap.

“You’re very welcome,” Patsy replies as she eases out of the car park and onto the main road, her heart turning over happily. “So. Was that really formidable woman your boss?”

+++

When they turn onto Delia’s street thirty minutes later, Patsy is sure that no half hour of her life has ever flown by faster. Apparently Delia is thinking along the same lines, because she pauses mid-sentence to say “We’re here already?!” looking bewildered, as if they’d teleported there. Patsy is just glad they’ve arrived in one piece, considering the number of times she’d had to remind herself to keep her eyes on the road after finding her gaze drifting to Delia’s face in the review mirror.

Barbara is closing the front door behind her as they pull up to Delia’s house. She waves at them rather curiously, then heads off down the street, tapping away on her phone.

“Probably off to see Tom,” Delia says.

Delia is facing towards the passenger window, but Patsy can practically hear her eyes roll. She chuckles, watching Barbara hurry away. “So, hang on, does she know you know about them or not?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Delia says, unclipping her seatbelt. “It’s kind of an open secret. I mean, we _all_ know. She’s shit at being sneaky. Even Trixie knows. I think.” She shakes her head. “It’s not like Trixie would mind, she and Tom were only really together for like four months in our first year. But Barbara’s just, I don’t know. Barbara.”

Patsy nods. “She’s so sweet though. I ran into her on the stairs after I left your room and she was lovely.”

She watches Delia very closely as she says this, but her face remains expressionless. Not for the first time since she woke up this morning, Patsy wonders how much Delia remembers of the scene in her bedroom.

Delia is focusing on zipping up her jacket, evidently unfazed. “Oh, really? Yeah, we all love her very much.”

They sit in silence, Delia carefully examining her fingernails and Patsy clasping her hands so tightly in her lap that they feel locked together. She feels very nervous suddenly, as though the mention of Delia’s bedroom has filled the air between them with a sort of expectation that neither of them want to acknowledge.

She unclasps her hands just as Delia’s eyes dart towards her. “Anyway,” she begins, at the same time Delia says, “So I was wondering—“

Both of them laugh self-consciously. Patsy clears her throat. “Sorry, go ahead.”

“Sorry,” Delia says. “No, um, I was just wondering if you’ve got plans tonight?”

Patsy’s pulse flies instantly into overdrive. “No,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Why?”

“Well my housemates and I have these, like, game nights,” Delia begins tentatively, fiddling with her zip again. “I mean, we normally abandon the game bit halfway through and end up drinking in front of the TV instead. But I don’t know, they’re quite fun and you should come, if you haven’t got anything better to do, which you probably—“

“I’d love to come,” Patsy interrupts, her heart leaping.

Delia exhales very quickly. “Oh, good!” she says, sounding slightly breathless.

Just as the words leave Delia’s mouth, something flickers in Patsy’s memory. “Wait, shit—“ She slaps her hand to her forehead. Patrick and Shelagh. They’d invited her to drinks tonight. Briefly she wonders if she could get away with cancelling on them again, before realising that it would be the third time in two weeks. “Shit, no, I can’t, I promised my friends Patrick and Shelagh I’d see them tonight.”

Delia looks momentarily put out, then her face lights up again. “Just bring them!” she says brightly.

Patsy winces at her. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah, Barbara would be thrilled to have more people, believe me.”

Patsy contemplates Delia’s hopeful face, deliberating whether Patrick and Shelagh would want to be dragged to a total stranger’s house for the evening, before deciding she doesn’t care. “If you’re sure…”

Delia nods confidently. “I am. And Trixie will be over the moon, she told me to make sure I invited you.” And before Patsy has a chance to feel disappointed that this might technically be Trixie’s invitation, Delia adds, “Probably because you two are, like, co-conspirators now.”

Patsy stares at her blankly. “What?”

“You know, scheming to pick me up from work while I was in the loo,” Delia says, a grin rising on her face. “Unbelievable.”

Patsy can’t stop herself from grinning back. “We are not _conspirators_. I’ve talked to her for all of, what, twenty minutes--”

“You were friends on Facebook before _we_ were friends!” Delia cries, her eyes sparkling.

“She added _me_!” Patsy laughs.

They beam at each other, Patsy’s heart swelling in her chest, until finally Delia says, “Right. I really need to have a shower.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, Busby…”

Delia shoves Patsy’s shoulder. “Be quiet. I’ll see you tonight.”

Patsy watches in her mirrors as Delia grabs her bag from the boot, and waves her into the house.

The spot on her shoulder where Delia touched her tingles. She feels lighter than she has done in weeks.

+++

“So,” Patrick says when they’re all standing on Delia’s front stoop several hours later. “Is this more of a Monopoly game night, or a Dungeons and Dragons game night?”

On Patsy’s other side, Shelagh groans. “ _Please_ don’t say it’s a Dungeons and Dragons game night. He gets really intense about, like, elf women.”

“Elf women are _fit_.“

Patsy barely registers them speaking. She and Delia had texted the entire afternoon nearly nonstop, until both of them had grudgingly agreed that they should probably get some work done. Yet in spite of this, Patsy finds herself shifting her weight nervously between her feet, more anxious than ever. It feels very unfair somehow.

A second later, the door swings open to reveal Delia with a beer in her hand. Patsy is relieved to see that she’s just in dungarees and a ponytail; she hadn’t been sure what people wear to a game night, and had finally settled on her favourite checked shirt and jeans.

“Pats! Hi!” Delia says, her eyes falling immediately on Patrick’s electric blue fedora and the colourful ribbons woven into Shelagh’s long, blonde dreads.

Patsy grins. “Hey Deels.” She points to her friends on either side of her. “This is Patrick, and this is Shelagh.”

Patrick reaches out his hand, which Delia takes, looking amused. “Patrick. Thanks for inviting us.”

Shelagh nods emphatically. “It was so nice of you.”

“I _love_ your hair,” Delia says, wide-eyed.

“Oh, thanks! It was an act of teenage rebellion that I decided I quite liked.” Shelagh smiles and tugs on a dread as Patrick watches her fondly. “Anyway, we’ve heard _so_ much about you—“

Luckily, Trixie chooses that moment to appear in the doorway, stopping Shelagh from incriminating Patsy any further.

“You came!” Trixie squeals at Patsy right next to Delia’s ear. Delia jumps. “I wasn’t sure Delia was telling the truth about inviting you.”

“Of course I was telling the truth,” Delia says hastily, but Trixie has moved on to introducing herself to Patrick and Shelagh, so Patsy doesn’t think anyone else hears.

“Where should we put these?” Shelagh asks, holding up a case of imported beer.

“Ooh, exotic,” Trixie trills. “Follow me—“ and she flounces away into the kitchen, Patrick and Shelagh following close behind.

Delia raises her eyebrows and gives her head a little shake of disbelief. “Hey,” she says again, beaming at Patsy and gesturing her inside.

Patsy steps through the door, beaming back. “Hey.”

“Long time no see.”

Patsy giggles, another jolt of nerves shooting through her. Delia motions to the kitchen behind them, where Patrick and Shelagh are meeting Barbara and Winnie. “They’re so _cool_ ,” she says in a stage whisper.

“You sound _shocked_ ,” Patsy whispers back.

“Way cooler than _us_.”

Patsy laughs and returns to her normal voice. “I know. Meant to be, aren’t they.”

For some reason Delia looks relieved. “So they’re together?”

“Yeah, they are,” Patsy says, eyeing Delia curiously. “What did you—“

“ _Delia! Patsy! Hurry up!”_ Winnie shouts from the other room.

Delia flashes Patsy a guilty smile and hurries out of the room. Patsy frowns after her for a second, then follows her into the kitchen.

The kitchen looks quite unrecognisable from last night, Patsy thinks. With all the people gone and the bottles and cups tidied away, it’s surprisingly roomy. There’s a cleaning schedule tacked to one wall with tick marks next to everyone’s names; apparently Delia has missed her past two weeks of chores. Patsy smiles to herself.

Through the open door to the dining room, Barbara and Winnie are hunched over a small yellow tin at the table while Patrick and Shelagh stand next to them with beers, chatting to Trixie. Patsy wanders over.

“Shelagh was just telling us how she and Patrick met,” Trixie explains as Delia joins them.

Patsy grabs a crisp from the bowl on the table and pops it in her mouth. “At Two Door Cinema Club?”

“Well we _met_ at the postgrad induction day,” Patrick says with a wholly revolting look on his face that he reserves specially for Shelagh. “But our first date was Two Door Cinema Club.”

Delia frowns. “Where even is Two Door—thingy?”

“It’s a band,” Patsy grins. “Patrick and I were meant to go together, then he fell in love with Shelagh and gave her my ticket.”

“Which I have apologised for, for the record,” Shelagh says. Patsy laughs.

Delia clicks her tongue. “’Two Door Cinema Club,’ honestly.”

“They’re really good!” Patsy protests. She glances sideways at Delia and reaches around her for another crisp. “We should try to go sometime,” she says, deliberately casual.

“You should, Delia,” Patrick nods. “They’re epic.”

“Okay!” barks Winnie suddenly. Everyone looks at her. Patsy tries to shake off the feeling of vague annoyance. “We’re ready.”

Patsy, Delia, Trixie, Patrick and Shelagh obediently take their seats at the table. Patsy notices Delia scoot her chair a fraction of an inch closer to hers and can’t help but wonder if it’s on purpose.

“Right,” Winnie says once everyone is settled, trying and failing to look serious. “The name of the game… is DOBBLE.”

She and Barbara look around at them all expectantly. Everyone stares blankly back, except Patrick, who sits up straight, slams his hands on the table, and announces sombrely, “I fucking love Dobble.”

Shelagh blinks at him. “How do you know Dobble?”

“I play it with my niece and nephew whenever I watch them and it’s bloody amazing,” Patrick says, without taking his eyes off the tin. “Barbara, hit me.”

Winnie cheers as Barbara takes the lid off the tin and starts dealing circular purple cards around the table.

“Okay, so, basically,” Barbara begins in a business-like fashion. “ _Trixie, don’t look at your cards!—_ Basically, each card has ten little pictures on it, right? There’s a ghost, and a dog, and a leaf…” She waves her hand vaguely in the air. “So. There’s going to be one card in the centre of the table. When I turn it over, you all turn over the card on the top of your pile, and try to find a matching picture on it as fast as you can. So, if there’s a cat somewhere on the card on the table, and you see a cat on your card, you slam your card on top of it and turn over your next card, okay? And whoever runs out of cards the fastest is the Dobble champion.”

Shelagh looks confused. “Wait, so it’s a kid’s game?”

In a loud, indignant chorus, Barbara, Winnie, and Patrick all cry out variations of “It is _not!_ ” and “It is _so much more_ than a kid’s game!”

Patsy catches Delia’s eye next to her and they both stifle a laugh. Across the table, Trixie rolls her eyes and takes a large gulp of her wine.

“It’s sort of like Snap, but better, because there are pictures,” says Barbara calmly.

“Sounds like a kid’s game,” Shelagh mutters to Patsy under her breath. Patsy snorts and tries to cover it up with a cough.

“What do we get if we win?” Trixie asks innocently over the rim of her wine glass.

“Glory,” says Barbara.

“Honour,” says Winnie.

“I have old chocolates from my gran upstairs,” Delia says helpfully.

“Delia’s gran’s old chocolate,” amends Barbara to Trixie without missing a beat.

“Oh, it’s on, Busby,” says Patsy. “I will do anything for chocolate.”

“Anything?” asks Delia in a low voice, quirking an eyebrow at her. Patsy feels herself go pink.

“Right,” Winnie says bossily. She really is in her element, Patsy thinks, silently willing her cheeks to return to their normal colour. “Does everyone understand the rules?”

+++

Shelagh, it transpires, is very good at Dobble. She quietly beats them all five times over, and the sixth time that she announces she’s run out of cards, Patrick looks at her with an expression of mingled amusement and incredulity and says, “Did you _invent_ this game?”

“It’s not _hard_ , Patrick,” she says. “It’s for _children_.”

Patsy quickly catches Delia’s eye, but has to look away when they both start laughing. Barbara and Winnie, who have both got sizable stacks of cards left in front of them, sigh loudly and slump back in their chairs.

Trixie looks up from her phone. “Oh, are we finished?”

“Were you even playing, Trixie?” asks Barbara.

Trixie waves her phone in front of Barbara’s face. “Chris was texting me, Barbara, I’m not just going to _ignore_ him, am I.”

“Who’s Chris?” Shelagh asks interestedly.

“Her main squeeze,” grins Winnie.

Delia gives Patsy a significant look as Trixie opens her mouth to respond, and jumps up from the table. “Right. I could use another beer. Anyone?”

“Me,” Patsy replies, getting the hint and standing up.

“Best not,” says Patrick, miming a steering wheel in front of him while Shelagh listens intently to Trixie’s monologue at his side. “Got to drive us home.”

Barbara and Winnie are too busy packing up the game to pay attention, so Delia picks up the empty bottles scattered across the table and beckons Patsy to come with her into the kitchen. Even as Trixie launches into how Chris can recite Tennyson by heart, Patsy is sure she sees her eyes follow them both out of the dining room.

Delia slumps with her back against the counter once they enter the kitchen, shoving her hands in the pockets of her dungarees.

“I don’t know if I actually want another beer,” she admits, smiling guiltily. “I just can’t stand to hear the Chris speech again.”

Patsy gasps dramatically. “And here I was thinking you cared about your friends.”

“I do care about my friends!” Delia protests. “I’ve just heard it seventy five thousand times before!”

Patsy laughs, her eyes falling on the beer that Shelagh and Patrick brought. She points to it. “We could just split one?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Patsy expects Delia to rummage through the cupboards for a couple of glasses, but instead she pulls a bottle from the case, pops the lid on the counter, and motions to the sliding glass door opening onto the back garden. “Do you want to go outside?”

Patsy’s stomach does a little lurch. She forces it down and follows Delia through the door.

It’s unusually warm for a March night. All the same, Patsy hugs her arms around herself, and leans back against the patio railing. The kitchen windows glow orange in front of her, the sounds of their friends’ voices carrying through them across the house.

Delia props her elbows on the railing and settles back next to Patsy, taking a swig of beer and offering it to her. Patsy hesitates for a second, then accepts the bottle and takes a sip.

It feels strangely intimate, sharing Delia’s beer. Delia smiles lazily at her, then drops her head back and stares up at the sky. For the smallest moment, Patsy lets her gaze linger, and then she too looks up to survey the stars.

“I used to play games like that with my dad,” Patsy says after a minute. “Snap, and everything. He always let me win.”

She’s not sure what compels her to say it. She feels Delia look at her, but she doesn’t look back.

“When I was little I had this terrible anxiety,” she continues. “It was awful, I had these panic attacks and everything when my dad went to work because I was scared he wouldn’t come back. So he would start waking me up when he got home, even if it was really late, just so I’d know he was alright. But then of course I’d be wide awake, so he’d always say we could play _one_ game, but just one, because it was horrifically past my bedtime.” She laughs.

She can still feel Delia’s eyes on her, waiting for her to say more. Smiling, Delia says, “He sounds like a good dad.”

Patsy spares her a small glance and grins. “Yeah. Between the hours of 1 and 2 AM anyway.”

Delia takes the beer from her. The tips of her fingers graze Patsy’s knuckles as she does, and it sends a shiver through Patsy’s body that she can’t attribute to the warm night.

“Where does he live, your dad?” Delia asks after a moment. She says it very casually, cradling the beer between her hands, but Patsy can tell she’s been wanting to ask.

“Hong Kong,” she says. “He works there.”

“Oh, wow.” Delia clinks her fingernails against the glass of the bottle, not looking at her. “But you were born in Singapore?”

Patsy is surprised Delia knows this, until she remembers that it’s on Facebook. She nods, swallowing thickly. “We moved to England when my parents split up but he had to go back to Asia for work, so I was sent to boarding school when I was nine.”

Delia looks taken aback. Patsy turns around quickly and leans forward with her forearms on the railing, facing the dark garden.

“Pats, that must’ve been-“

“What do you think of Patrick and Shelagh?” Patsy interrupts. She throws a forced smile in Delia’s direction and looks back out at the black hedgerows lining the garden fence. Delia is watching her with her lips parted, as though she wants to say something else, but after a minute she closes her mouth. Patsy is immensely grateful.

“I really like them,” Delia says, still facing the other way with her back pressed against the railing. Her arm brushes Patsy’s as she takes another drink. “They’re—“

“Eccentric?” Patsy finishes for her.

Delia chuckles. “I mean…”

“When I met Patrick,” Patsy says, “he was completely fixated on making these origami frogs in class. I mean, every lesson, I’d arrive in the classroom, and he’d be there already folding these bloody origami frogs.” She laughs. “It was like, ‘for god’s sake.’ And the lecturer was convinced he wasn’t listening so she’d chuck these surprise questions at him, and he’d always get them right. And I thought, you know what, I’m in this new place, I want to be friends with the origami frog bloke.”

Delia’s head is tilted onto her shoulder, her lips curving as she listens. She puts the beer bottle on the patio floor and repositions herself so she’s facing the garden next to Patsy. “I wish I had a thing like that,” she says. “ _’There goes Origami Frog Girl_.’”

Patsy nudges her with her shoulder. “You do have a thing,” she says. “You’re like, football coach girl, and ambulance volunteer girl, and biology girl.” She considers for a second and shrugs. “Your thing is just being, y’know, brilliant and perfect.”

Delia shifts next to her, but Patsy doesn’t dare look at her face. “ _I_ haven’t got a thing,” she says, mainly so Delia doesn’t have a chance to register what she’s just said.

“Oh yes you do,” Delia grins. “You’re, like, dark and mysterious girl.”

“Have you seen my skin, Busby,” Patsy jokes, deflecting immediately. “I’m a ghost. I look like I’ve never seen the sun in my life.”

“Fine, mysterious and randomly-born-in-Singapore-but-never-mentions-it girl.”

Patsy smiles, probably mysteriously, and doesn’t respond.

They look out over the garden. The amber light from the house shines warmly across the overgrown grass, illuminating two lopsided camping chairs around a rusty aluminium tray that Patsy assumes was last summer’s barbecue. Delia is pressed so tightly against Patsy’s side that their shadows, tall and dark against the grass, look as though they belong to a single person. Patsy wonders if Delia can feel her pulse hammering through her skin, the same way she can hear it pounding in her ears.

“Were you interested in Patrick?” Delia asks quietly. “When you met him?”

Patsy stiffens, then chokes out a laugh. “God, don’t let him hear you say that. He’d be insufferable.”

Delia turns to look at her. Patsy can feel her gaze burning into her cheek. “But were you?”

Patsy swallows. “No,” she says. And then: “He’s not really my type.”

“Because of the frogs?” Delia asks.

With great effort, Patsy forces herself to meet Delia’s eyes. She’s surprised by how close their faces are. Something seems to be buzzing in the air between them as they look at each other, like electricity. She wonders if Delia is asking what she thinks she’s asking. She wonders what answer Delia wants to hear.

Or maybe she really is just curious about the origami frogs.

Patsy stands up straight. The energy between them flickers and dies.

“Yeah, the frogs,” she says, hating herself. “And anyone could tell he was head over heels for Shelagh the second he saw her.”

Something like disappointment flashes across Delia’s face, but a second later, it’s gone.

“I’m cold,” Delia says, even though to Patsy it feels like mid-summer. “Shall we go back in?”

Patsy nods. Feeling like an unbelievable coward, she follows Delia through the sliding glass door, and into the house full of their waiting friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shelagh the lovely/badass postgrad with crazy hair and Patrick her pretentious hipster boyfriend may or may not be a questionable idea but I'm sticking to my guns! 8)


End file.
